


Coffee Song

by okapi



Series: The Sniper Vanishes 'verse (Moran/Moriarty) [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A very sweet ending despite the other tags, Biting, Choking, Face Punching, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Stabbing, kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26708893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Jim and Seb meet for breakfast.For National Coffee Day (US).
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Series: The Sniper Vanishes 'verse (Moran/Moriarty) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718791
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30
Collections: Season of Kink





	Coffee Song

**Author's Note:**

> Also for my Season of Kink bingo card square G-3: rough sex.

Sebastian Moran flipped up his collar and huffed, his warm breath forming a thin cloud in the early morning air. He checked his mobile again. He looked up and down the street and then at the door. This was the address, but it didn’t look like any kind of dining establishment. There was no sign overhead and no lettering on the door. The windows were covered with newspaper.

Seb’s instincts were piqued, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He hadn’t come heavily armed. He has his blade, as always, but that was all.

Seb didn’t normally bring a gun to breakfast. 

Was this an ambush? Like last night?

But last night Seb had been the one doing the ambushing.

* * *

_Waiting long hours in the dark was second nature to Seb._

_He waited. And waited._

_Finally, he heard his target, a familiar clip-clop of the soles of the well-shod on uneven pavement stones._

_Seb waited the last few moments, slowing his breath, readying himself. His adrenaline spiked, spilling into his blood a hit of something so wonderful it ought to be illegal._

_And then, like the tiger he was, Seb sprang._

_Without a sound, he gripped his quarry by the shoulders and dragged him into the alley and threw him against the stone wall. Seb got a menacing growl for his pains._

_“Bastard!”_

_Seb ducked at the swinging fist, but the charging body that followed caught him, rugby-tackle style, directly in his middle, pushing him back with unanticipated force and fury._

_Seb’s back hit the opposite wall. He grunted at the impact, more from surprise than pain._

_Then a mouth was on Seb’s, demanding, gnawing, hungry. It tasted of wasabi and ginger and soy sauce. It wasn’t a kiss. It was more like the display of a saber-toothed predator showing off his deadliest weapons._

_Well, Seb had his own teeth, and he pulled back his gums and bared them._

_Teeth clacked against teeth, loud and adolescent._

_Seb grabbed the back of a head with one hand and the front of a suit jacket with the other, but rather than push his adversary away from him, he launched the both of them, lip-locked, two bodies pressed into one angry mass, across the alley._

_Seb intended to use his greater weight and height as well as the force of momentum to crush the other beneath him, but just as he felt the rude smack of the wall, the mouth that had been kissing him bit his bottom lip._

_It bit his lip nearly in two!_

_“Shit!” Seb’s eyes teared involuntarily. He blinked. He licked the inside of the wound and tasted copper. “Bastard!”_

_Seb could not control his outraged response. His fist connected with a cheekbone. He was only sorry it wasn’t a nose. The sound of the crunch would’ve been very satisfying. Especially with his lip still bleeding._

_A low moan of pain was followed by a stream of obscenities insulting Seb and three generations of Seb’s ancestors, but then a spidery leg was hooking round Seb’s ankle and unbalancing him._

_“Oh, no, you don’t.”_

_Seb’s protests were useless._

_The two of them fell to the ground._

* * *

Seb pulled on the heavy door and cautiously took a step inside.

His senses instantly laid to rest his misgivings. First, there was the sight of a smattering of diners, mostly loners with phones or tablets but a few couples, too, all sitting at tables except a single person hunched on a stool at a long counter. Second, there was the clink-clank of busy cutlery. Third, and most of all, there was the smell of frying things, bacon, bread, and eggs. 

Seb spotted him at once, the lone patron at the counter.

He was dressed in a dark grey suit, the kind that didn’t show its worth until you looked close and closely. His hair shone with an old Hollywood gleam. Not a strand was out of place.

Dapper, but not ostentatious. Seb liked that.

Even from the back, Seb noticed the curved tortoise shell of the tips of the glasses. He knew they wouldn’t be dark glasses, per se, that would draw too much attention at this early hour, but they’d be slightly tinted.

“This seat taken?” asked Seb as he gave a nod of salutation to the man behind the counter, who returned the gesture with a twirl of a greasy spatula.

There was a wave of a hand.

Seb settled himself on the stool.

* * *

_In the alley, Seb had struck his head on the ground as they fell, and his assailant had taken advantage of the moment’s confusion to pin him. But not for long._

_Seb had quickly regained his wits and flipped them like a pair of rabid, snarling pancakes._

_“Bastard!”_

_Seb had the sense it was less an oath aimed at himself than a lament at the turn of the tide of the battle. He crushed his mouth to the other’s, but he could not do so, that is, he could not close the tiny, violent distance between their bodies, without slightly loosening his vise grip on the other’s wrists._

_Their tongues wrestled as fiercely as the rest of their bodies, vying for dominance, for control, for the upper hand. They rolled one way and then the other, grunting and growling, evenly matched for a while._

_Seb didn’t spare a thought for what exactly they were rolling in, but it was no doubt filth. It smelled like it, at least._

_Finally, Seb was on top with two hands wrapped round a neck. The legs beneath him flailed wildly._

_“Admit it. You’re a bastard.”_

_The reply was a croak. “My parents were married, you piece of shit! So were yours!”_

_Seb squeezed. He looked down and in the tiny sliver of penetrating streetlight, saw the bulge in the trousers._

_“Getting off on this?”_

_“Bloodying you? Yeah?”_

_WHAM!_

_“ARGH!”_

_Like a brutal pinch of a pair pliers, teeth sunk into the side of Seb’s neck. That was going to leave a bruise, a nasty one._

_Seb was panting. Loud. Ragged. Or maybe it wasn’t him._

_Seb was on his back again. He wasn’t certain how long he’d been out. Probably just a moment or two. There was a crotch grinding into his, and his prick was liking it a little too much. His strength was ebbing, and he was about to concede defeat._

_“Done fighting? Wanna fuck?”_

_“Who says we can’t do both?”_

* * *

The oval plate before Seb was heaped with eggs, bacon, fried bread, beans, grilled tomatoes, and sausages. It smelled glorious, but it looked obscene next to the only other plate on the counter, which held two austere slices of buttered toast, only one of which showed any signs of nibbling.

“Not hungry?” asked Seb before shoveling another mouthful in.

“Not as hungry as you. The coffee’s good here.”

Seb ordered a cup of coffee.

* * *

_Their pricks were out. Seb was on top again._

_Seb reached, and his fingers met and twined between other fingers, slightly shorter, slightly thinner, much less calloused fingers than his own, and together their fingers wrapped round their two shafts, bringing the pricks together._

_They had both spat on their palms. It wasn’t enough. At least for Seb._

_“More, you degenerate tosser. You may like to sandpaper your prick off every night, but I take care of my tools.”_

_After this, declaration, Seb’s hand was being forcibly jerked away from their pricks. There was a gross noise, and then a huge glob of spit filled his palm._

_“Better not spill it. That’s all you’re getting, cocksucker.”_

_Soon their fingers were twined once more and wrapped once more round their joined pricks. One swipe from base to head, and Seb heard a whine that was definitely not him._

_“You ought to have that needy mess fucked out of you. A week of up my prick up your arse might do it.”_

_“I’d like to see you try.”_

_“You’d like to beg me to try, you mean. Give it to you this good, every morning and night.”_

_Their hands moving up and down, just enough friction, just enough ease._

_Tight. Slippery._

_Perfect._

_“It’s good,” groaned Seb. And it was._

_“On the ground like animals in a foul alley at two in the morning?” The charge was followed by a noise of abject disdain._

_Seb’s anger flared. He kept one hand on the pricks, urging a faster rubbing, but the other he lifted to close round a neck._

_He squeezed the neck. He squeezed the prick._

_He did it again in a coordinated constricting motion, like a snake crushing its prey._

_He squeezed and squeezed, and then he bent down and said with a snarl, his lips moving against a throbbing temple as if in prayer,_

_“You are, far and away, the wickedest man I’ve ever met. And I’ve met some absolute shit-stains in my day. In and out of uniform.”_

_The reply was coarse and strained and barely a whisper. “And yet here you are. On me. With your hand round my prick.”_

_“Your hand’s round my prick, too!”_

_“Your hand’s round my throat.”_

_Seb squeezed in reply. “And you love it.”_

_Seb looked down. His contribution to the wanking was, admittedly, deteriorating. His hand was basically sandwiched between the other two and being buoyed and guided by them. He turned his head and looked at the street._

_Fear crept in. And self-preservation reared its ugly head._

_No wank in the world was worth being exposed like this._

_“Don’t. Don’t think. Keep your left hand there,” Seb’s left was round the neck, “and I’ll do the other. Quick.”_

_Seb nodded._

* * *

Seb took the last piece of fried bread and folded it and dipped the edge in the pool of egg ooze and tomato ooze, and grease. He’d devoured the whole ensemble, save for one large, crisp-skinned sausage.

As Seb sopped up the mess and finished off the bread, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, something metal being slipped towards him on the counter.

Without looking, with a magician’s sleight of hand, Seb reached out and took it and tucked it in his pocket.

It was a key, Seb could feel that much, but he wasn’t the kind to ask questions. He’d be told what he needed to know, what he needed to open, when he needed to know it.

He washed the last bite of bread down with a sip the coffee. He was drinking the coffee out of respect for the person sitting next to him. In truth, the brew was bloody awful, one of those acquired tastes that Seb suspected he wouldn’t get around to acquiring.

* * *

_Their bodies were jerking. Their pricks were spasming and spitting. The pleasure was terrible and blinding and maddening._

_Seb was coming hard and not giving a damn for the consequences._

_Seb withdrew his hand from the neck and collapsed forward with a spent grunt. As the afterglow faded, he began to feel unmoored, vulnerable, and a little bit stupid._

_He felt even more stupid when the body beneath him slithered sideways like an eel and abandoned him; Seb was lying face first in a dinghy alley with his prick out, Christ’s sake._

_But it was nothing compared to how stupid Seb felt when then the kick came._

_“Oof!”_

_It wasn’t a hard kick, really, but it wasn’t just a touch, either. It would leave a bruise, and a bruise at the ribs was a sleeping monster, Seb knew from experience. For a day or two, it would hurt to breathe._

_So Seb did what he had to do._

_He pulled his knife and stuck it in the bastard’s calf._

* * *

“It’s mine. It’ll do until we find a place that suits us both.”

It took Seb a beat to process this. He sipped his coffee while he thought. 

Jim was asking Seb to move in with him. It wasn’t spoken like a question, like a request, but Seb knew it was. He was asking. He wasn’t telling Seb or ordering Seb or paying Seb to do something.

Seb set the cup of coffee down. “This coffee’s awful.”

“It’s rich, strong, bitter, boiling hot, ruthless, and depraved.”

“Oh, you mean it’s like you?” Seb turned his head for the first time and met Jim’s gaze. He grinned at the swollen, black eye, barely disguised by tinted lenses.

“And you.”

Seb’s side hurt. There was a mottled bruise on the side of his neck, and an angry gash in his bottom lip.

“I’m not rich.”

“You could be.”

That was a lie. Seb might have access to money, Jim’s money, but he’d never be rich.

“Yes.” Seb’s reply was not agreement. It was a response to the question, to the request, that was hanging between them. “But I’m not giving up my bolt holes, at least not the Hospital or the Cupboard.” The Bedroom was negotiable.

Jim nodded once. “Understood.”

Seb looked down at his plate. His last sausage was gone. He turned his head, and the sausage was being wrapped between two pieces of toast and wolfed down.

It had just been nerves, thought Seb. He didn’t know what I was going to say.

Stupid bastard.

Well, if they were going to talk, they’d best talk. Seb cleared his throat.

“And despite last night, I’m not Cato to your Inspector Clouseau. I don’t go in and out the back door.”

Jim stopped eating and raised a wicked eyebrow. “No back door?” he asked, pouting round a mouthful of bread and sausage.

Seb laughed. ‘You know what I mean. I’m not your bloody Jeeves!”

Jim swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You’re not clever enough to be Jeeves, and I can stud my own shirt, thank you very much. Partners?” He took a sip of coffee. “’Boyfriend’ sounds like you wear your trousers a lot tighter than you do.”

“Partners,” agreed Seb. He finished his coffee. The flavour was growing on him.

They paid and made to leave.

Seb watched Jim try, and fail, to hide a slight limp.

“Got a hitch in your giddy-up, boss?” Seb asked casually as he held the door open for Jim.

They stepped out onto the pavement.

“Yeah, some bastard stabbed me in the leg last night.”

“Want me to deal with ‘im?”

“Nah, I took care of him myself,” Jim smiled, “It was long overdue.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Jim's description of the coffee is from Raymond Chandler's _The Long Goodbye_. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
